


Cruisin' for a Bruisin'

by LogicalApplication, mandysimo13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Analingus, Barebacking, Based on a Tumblr Post, Biting, Bottom John, Bottoming from the Top, Dirty Talk, Fingering, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Smut, Top Sherlock, Wrestling, it was a joint effort, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 13:13:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14874398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicalApplication/pseuds/LogicalApplication, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/pseuds/mandysimo13
Summary: John is kind of fascinated (obsessed) with Sherlocks beefier post-reichenbach figure - he's always stared at Sherlocks straining shirt buttons, but now that he can see the shape of Sherlocks pecs, a hint of his abs when he turns in a certain way, all while preserving that trim waist - it does things to John. He's spent a lot of time thinking about Anderson naked recently in order to quell inopportune erections. Especially when rolls his shirt sleeves to his elbows.





	Cruisin' for a Bruisin'

**Author's Note:**

> This is my co-author's first fic so please be kind and enthusiastic. ^_^
> 
> Hi All! Ivy Here. As Manysimo13 says, this is my first 'fic' - what started out as a sexy headcannon in an askbox on Tumblr spiraled into us writing this back and forth between us. This was a lot of fun to write - Mandysimo13 is lovely, with a wickedly dirty mind. I hope you all enjoy this little bit of smutty wish fulfillment. 
> 
> Also - John & Sherlock live in the wonderful world of fanfiction, where they can get away with unprotected sex. Alas, we do not, so please be safe yourselves!  
> ~Ivy

John has a real problem with his inability to keep cool when checking out Sherlock's body. Like, it was definitely a problem before The Fall, but it's worse now.

He never thought he’d wish for the ‘flouncing around the flat in the sheet’, when all John needed to do was stare out of the corner of his eye in good lighting to get an eyeful. But now, even though Sherlock stays clothed for the most part, those clothes are definitely snugger and leave almost nothing to the imagination. At least the sheet wasn’t form fitting. And while his suits were expertly tailored and perfectly fit before, now John’s noticed that Sherlock has…substance under those layers. His muscles have filled him out and made him much more real than before and it makes John’s mouth  _water_.

He was always gorgeous, always more than a little hazardous but the new muscle makes him seem that little more  _dangerous_ … It makes John feel more like they’d be evenly matched if they fought - like John wouldn’t be able to throw him off if Sherlock where to throw him up against something and pin his wrists…

The thought of being manhandled by Sherlock makes John embarrassingly hard. He’s desperate to feel those new, hardened muscles pressing into him and trapping him against the wall, floor, bed, he’s not picky. He finds himself trying to come up with a scenario where he can “innocently” entice Sherlock into sparring with him.

But…they don’t do that kind of stuff.

At least, not until a case presents them with the opportunity to try out self-defence moves. John’s more excited than he cares to admit at the potential of finally - _finally_ \- being able to get close to him. And John’s a patient man. So by the time the universe drops the exact excuse he was looking for into his lap, this desire has been simmering for quite some time.

Sherlock is puzzling out bruises and scuff marks, but can’t resolve them in a satisfactory manner to figure out how the suspect managed to escape. He’s at the kitchen table, photographs spread across every inch, when John begins the routine of making tea for both of them - he doesn’t bother asking, anymore. Sherlock will drink it or ignore it, and offering doesn’t give any indication which. He concentrates on pouring and stirring more than usual, to give him something to be feasibly distracted by when he tries to casually bring up the option

_Oh god, Sherlock is going to see straight through him…_

“If there’s nothing obvious in the evidence you’ve got, I don’t mind trying out some options with you, if that would help.”

_Oh, please say yes._

There’s silence behind him, and John is guessing his response will be between “ _What a ridiculous and redundant suggestion, John - as if there’s anything that process would suggest that I haven’t already thought of”_ and “ _Your motivations are painfully obvious, take your libido elsewhere, I am doing Important Things”_ when Sherlock’s voice cuts off his inner turmoil.

“I’m getting no further with what I have here, thanks to the awful photographers the Yard have on staff. Perhaps that might actually help, if you don’t mind, John”

“You needn’t sound so surprised, you know. I do occasionally have good ideas. And no, I’m not interested in it if you consider “occasionally” to be the correct term.”

There’s an indignant huff from behind him, but Sherlock stands and starts shoving furniture around to clear space in the living room.

John is very, very careful not to think about what they’re about to do as they discuss the mechanics. When Sherlock stands before him, shirts slevees rolled to his elbows and ready to begin, John isn’t sure whether to thank his lucky stars or curse them. He doesn’t have time to ponder, because then Sherlock is launching for him. One of Sherlock’s hands clasps John’s left wrist whilst the other exerts pressure on his shoulder and chest, trying to spin him into the wall. Thankfully, while a doctor he did go through Basic Training with the army. His training gives him the perfect opportunity to block the movement and get right up in Sherlock’s face.

Using Sherlock’s own motion against him, John sends him towards the wall whilst John’s leg moves to kick Sherlock’s feet further apart to throw off his balance. There’s some more struggling, but it ends up with John having Sherlock pinned against the wall.

_Oh god, don’t get hard don’t get hard don’t…_

“Fascinating. Show me how to do that, John”

And that’s how John ends up teaching Sherlock how best to throw him against the wall and pin him there - and it only takes the sodding genius two attempts before he successfully has John well and truly pinned to the point where John can’t escape not matter how he struggles. And  _oh_ , John had been doing so well, he was only moderately hard but not he was like  _steel_ and there was no way Sherlock wasn’t going to notice, was there?

“Okay. That’s one possibility. But there are other methods….”

John’s isn’t sure whether inviting more of this is a fantastic idea or an utterly terrible one. John’s breathing hard, trying not to obviously pant into their wallpaper as he tries to get his erection under control. Sherlock releases him and takes a step back and John is both thankful for the space and loathes it.

“Alright, next. Assume the position,” Sherlock says cheekily.

_You have **no**_ _idea what kind of positions I’d like to assume_ John thinks saltily. He sucks in a deep breath through his nose, silently praying that Sherlock will not look southward. He straightens to his full height and strides around Sherlock to the more open space behind him.

“So, those moves we did would land blows across the top of the shoulder, collarbones, and upper chest, thus creating some unique bruise patterns. Helpful?”

“Very,” Sherlock says with a smile. Without warning, He sweeps John’s feet out from under him with his leg and John goes down. John’s breath leaves him with a groan of “ow” before Sherlock is on him, straddling John’s thighs to try and pin John’s hands above his head.

But John, terrified that Sherlock will feel his persistent interest, manages to push Sherlock back just enough that he can swing his good leg across Sherlock’s chest and flip their positions.

From there on, it’s a grapple to try and be the one on top and neither of them pull their punches. Literally.

In the interest of science, John allows some of Sherlock’s blow to land on his torso and his back and he allows some of his kicks to hit his legs. He manages to pin Sherlock’s arms above his head, back firmly pressed into the floor and John thinks he’s got him beat. Due to the position John holds him in, his struggling pulls the muscles in his neck taut and Sherlock bares his teeth in effort as he tries to wriggle free.

John wants nothing more than to lean down and add a few unique bruises of his own.

Sherlock is sweating now and John becomes distracted watching a bead of perspiration roll down from Sherlock’s hairline to his neck. It proves just enough of a distraction that Sherlock’s able to raise his hips enough to unsettle John and in a second John ends up flat on his back.

Sherlock grins in triumph and leans in to gloat. “Got you.”

John can’t decide if Sherlock’s next move is intentional or not. All he knows is that Sherlock rolls his hips in an attempt to bring his face closer to brag some more and then they’re both gasping at the friction. At that moment, two things become glaring obvious.

One. John is  _incredibly_ hard.

Two. So is Sherlock.

John tries not to react, he really does, but  _Sherlock is pinning him to the floor._

_Ohmygod that’s Sherlocks **erection** and oh fuck that feels fucking incredible _

It’s nearly enough to cut off Johns train of thought except  _Sherlock isn’t moving away._

_Oh god, is he embarrassed? Is he even aroused or is it an adrenaline response? How on earth do I bring up the fact that I’d very much like him to carry on because that feels -_

“You’ve been mildly aroused since we began, but your pulse increased from 110 to 125 when I held you against the wall, despite the physical exertion decreasing - your respiration increased, and your pupils dilated. This response increased proportionally with how effective my manoeuvres pinned you”

Sherlock leans even closer, so that his breath ghosts across Johns lips

“And of course, the most compelling evidence…”

Sherlock’s hip presses into Johns still-very-interested cock.

“You  _like_ this. You’re aroused by physical altercation, by being restrained by someone stronger than you”

_Well, if he’s going to be like that_

John maintains Sherlock’s signature intense eye contact and very deliberately rolls hips upwards as far as he’s able, rubbing his hardness alongside Sherlock’s impressively hard erection.

“And what does  _this_ say about you then, hm? Because I don’t think it means you’re in any better state”

And  _oh,_ Sherlock’s eyelids  _flutter_ at that movement. A fierce expression crosses his face, and he shifts to hold Johns hips still, leaning even closer until he is _right there_ and his eyes leave John’s to sweep down to John’s mouth. John tries to lean up, tries to close the gap and land the kiss he’d been fantasizing about for  _so long_ but he can’t move and  _oh, that’s delicious._ He’s helpless in his arousal, and Sherlock’s body is strong and firm against him and  _surely no one could expect someone to function under those circumstances?_

Sherlock does some kind of full-body roll that feels  _divine_ but it also lessens the pressure on John’s arms and that’s all the invitation he needs to wriggle free and knock Sherlock’s elbows outwards, bringing Sherlock’s face closer  _\- so close, nearly close enough_ …

Sherlock isn’t having that though. He seizes Johns wrists and pulls them above his head, stretching John into one long line of arousal before his mouth is on Johns and then  _that’s Sherlocks tongue in his mouth._

_Sherlock’s kissing me. Sherlock. Is kissing. **Me!**_

John’s brain is only able to process so much input at a time and that input narrows down to Sherlock’s lips on his, Sherlock’s hands clasped tightly around his wrists, and Sherlock’s pelvis grinding down against his  _throbbing_ erection. With his arms stretched above him and Sherlock’s weight holding him down John feels deliciously tight and warm in his own skin.

At first, he struggles. He relishes the feeling of Sherlock forcing him into submission even as he’s biting Sherlock’s lips in an effort to fight back. He tenses his arms and rocks his hips in time with Sherlock’s thrusts in an attempt to somehow knock Sherlock off-balance. He trembles with undisguised pleasure when Sherlock growls at his stubbornness.

Then, gradually, John relaxes into the tide of lust Sherlock washes over him. He stops wriggling for freedom and focuses on squirming to enhance his own pleasure. He cants his hips up, trying to plant his feet on the ground to give him better leverage. His efforts make Sherlock groan into his mouth before finally coming up for air with a gasp.

He transfers both John’s wrists into one of his large hands before curling the other under John’s chin. John trembles with anticipation, allowing Sherlock to manipulate him in any way he damn well pleases. He noses along his jaw to John’s ear, making him shiver and he deeply inhales John’s scent.

“I’ve been wanting this too, you know,” Sherlock confesses, letting his lips brush teasingly against John’s hot skin.

John swallows back a moan, closing his eyes. “H-how long?”

“Long enough. Same as you.” Sherlock snakes his tongue out to suck John’s earlobe. “We can swap stories on the hows, whens, and whys later.” John can feel him grinning against his neck and all he can do was arch his neck even further to give Sherlock access to even more of his skin. “But for now, I want to see what other bruises we can plant on you.”

And with that, Sherlock’s mouth latches onto John’s neck.

“Not above my… collar…”

John knows he should be objecting, but Sherlock’s teeth are eliciting the perfect amount of pain before his tongue sweeps over the skin as he suckles on it and his  _mouth..._

“Jesus, Sherlock that’s…”

Sherlock pulls back and John can see the moment his eyes focus on the undoubtedly livid mark - his lip curls and a growl works its way out of his chest before he swoops down to work a matching bruise into the other side of John’s neck.

John is thinking about other bruises now, shadows around his wrists, across his hips… The image pulls a wiper from his throat. He moves his arms - he’s not really fighting anymore, he’s relishing how Sherlock’s weight presses into him through his palm, how John can tug and not be able to move.

Sherlock sits up and his free hand makes quick work of John’s shirt buttons. His fingers splay across John’s belly, which is pulled taught with the stretch of his body along the floor. He looks at John contemplatively as his palm slides upwards. A glint enters his eye - suddenly the weight is gone from John’s wrists and John’s torso twists up towards Sherlock, wanting contact, wanting to feel Sherlocks skin but he has pulled Johns shirt up his arms before he even has time to process it and its caught around John’s wrists because his cuffs are still buttoned and Sherlock is twisting the fabric and pulling it and -

And John’s hands are effectively tied, his arms stretched above his head but bent at the elbows, his wrists behind his neck as Sherlock pulls the shirt downwards. John is panting, trying to get enough air but he can’t; not when Sherlock is looking at him like he wants to  _eat_ him.

John can only stare, heart beating in his throat and loins as Sherlock makes him wait for his next move. Sherlock’s eyes lazily travel between the matching bruises on his neck before slowly sliding from his lips to his collarbone. Sherlock takes his free hand and gently places it on his clavicle, grin growing wider at John’s sudden intake of breath.

“This,” he says in his deep baritone, “was the first of tonight’s battle wounds. And very helpful in my research.”

_He’s talking about the damn bruises,_ John thinks with a slight whine. At Sherlock’s chuckle, it occurs to him that he might have just whined aloud. His whine turned into a groan of pain as Sherlock’s finger pushed down into the skin. He flinches, trying to squirm away from the pain but was stopped when Sherlock’s hips grind down into him, confusing his brain.

The feeling of being trapped between sensations is  _electrifying_.

“John, are you listening?”

Suddenly, the pressure from both Sherlock’s finger and groin is released and John can breathe again. He realizes that Sherlock has been speaking to him and he forces himself to open his eyes. “What?”

“I asked,” he repeats, bringing his face level to John’s, “would you like a few more?”

John doesn’t even hesitate to answer. “Oh  _God_ , yes!”

“Excellent.”

Lightning fast, Sherlock latches onto John’s right nipple, sucking and laving his tongue over it. John’s body clenches automatically, back arching in an attempt to both draw Sherlock closer and shift away from his assault. “Oh  _fuck,_ Sherlock!  _Ahh!”_ He bites his lip, trying to muffle his cries.

When Sherlock released him, he sighs with relief and desperation.

John opens his eyes, barely aware that he had even closed them. Sherlock’s fingers replace his mouth, teasing, barely brushing over his nipple as Sherlock tips his head to blow on the wet skin. When those fingers pinched at the same time as another roll of those sinful hips, John is powerless to stop the high pitched moan the tore out of his throat.

John turned his head and presses his face into his bicep, trying to hide his flaming face, to muffle his noises. Sherlock’s hand leaves his chest and seizes his chin.

“No, no hiding. I want to see your face, hear all the noises you’re making for me”

Sherlock’s voice, a weapon in its own right, is devastating when made huskier by arousal. His eyes dart over John, seemingly unable to decide what he wants to look at most.

That’s when Sherlock swings a leg over John’s hips so that he’s no longer straddling John’s hips. Frankly, that is the most disappointing event of the evening until  _oh, no it isn’t_ because Sherlock’s hand is working on the button of his jeans. John’s raises his hips, desperate, and a grin stretches across Sherlock’s face.

“Look at you. You can barely move, but when you do, it’s to do anything I please”

Once free of John’s trousers, Sherlock forcibly rolls John onto his front, using his control over John’s wrists and a strong hand on his hip. With his arms tethered as they are, John could only press his forehead into the floor between his elbows. One of Sherlock’s knees press between his own, creating space. The other joins it, and twin sets of pressure spreads John’s calves. Sherlock remains where he is and pulls on the shirt around John’s wrists. John’s has nowhere to go but onto his knees, his face turned sideways as his cheek slid over the floor. A pleased rumbling noise came from behind him, and John can imagine the picture he made.

The thought pulls another noise from his throat.

He is powerless to move - his hands tied, quite literally - and Sherlock’s knees had his legs just wide enough to keep him slightly off balance.

A big hand wraps around his hip. Sherlock sighs, obviously finding the whole thing extremely pleasing. John doesn’t notice him moving until he feels those lips, and the teeth behind them, press into his back. Excruciatingly slowly, they travel down, until Sherlock’s teeth are worrying the skin over the flare of John’s hip. There is nothing for John to press his hips into to combat the sensation this time, so John has to let it wash over him. When Sherlock’s breath fans over the very top of the crack of his ass, the breath freezes in John’s chest. 

_There is no was he’s going to - surely not?_

John had showered barely an hour ago, but even so. Sherlock’s mouth moves down, slowly, taking a maddening route over John’s skin until his breath is fanning over where John wanted it most desperately.

“I wonder what other pretty noises you could make for me, hm, John?”

“Oh god,” John pants, softly, body coiled tight with anticipation. Sherlock makes him wait for it, trailing light kisses across the base of his spine, ghosting his warm breath along his crack. John is growing desperate for something more. Some productive stimulation before Sherlock drives him mad. He wants to move, to wriggle his hips to entice Sherlock to  _just get on with it already!_ but he had no leverage and he knew it.

He is just along for the ride.

“John, I can see that you want this.” He trails his free hand down between John’s cheeks, making him jump the little bit he was able. Sherlock rubs a brief circle against his hole and John groans.

“Yes,” John says breathlessly.

His voice is in John’s ear again, his back pressing him down and contorting him in like a pinned butterfly. “I’ll need both my hands for this.” At Sherlock’s words, John’s cock gives a mighty twitch and he can feel precome well up at his tip. He bites back a needy moan and nods in understanding. “Can I trust you to keep your hands right where I leave them?”

“ _Sherlock_ _-”_ John starts, complaining at his stalling in what John is sure is going to be the death of him.

Cool as a cucumber, Sherlock asks again,

“Can I? You know how I do hate to repeat myself.”

John grit his teeth, composing himself enough to reply. “Yes, yes I can.”

“Good,” Sherlock’s low voice purrs. He unclenches his hand and gently removes it. Then he slowly lifts off him and John keens at the loss, feeling suddenly cold. Sherlock soothes the loss with a slide of his hands along John’s naked back. John leans into it, relishing the contact.

_Christ, I’m so gone,_ John thinks to himself.

When Sherlock’s hands come to the globes of his arse, they knead it firmly, gripping his cheeks. John tightens his fists in his bunched up shirt, determined to keep at least that part of him still.

When Sherlock parts him John shivers, the cool air making him feel more exposed than he was.

“Remember John,” Sherlock’s voice breaking through to his foggy brain, “no hiding from me. I want to hear  _everything_.” John nods vigorously in understanding. He could feel him moving behind him, bending low and John can see in his mind’s eye what they both looked like.

John, strung out, naked and spread out beneath Sherlock, trembling and silently begging to be touched. Sherlock, fully clothed and devouring him with his eyes, hands, and soon his mouth, hungry in every sense of the word.

Then, at the first touch of Sherlock’s tongue all other thoughts leave him in a cry of ecstasy.

It’s way too much and not nearly enough all at once. Sherlock’s tongue is teasing, sweeping over and around, pressing softly against the centre of the pucker for barely a moment before moving on. Tension coils in Johns stomach. Sherlock is relishing teasing him, refusing to give John enough to satisfy.

“I swear to god, Sherlock, if you don’t stop  _teasing_ …”

Sherlock sinks his teeth into the flesh of John’s ass in disapproval.

“Or  _what_ , John? You’ve been so good, don’t act like I’m not giving you everything you could possibly want. You’re exactly where you want to be. You couldn’t bring yourself to move if you tried.”

And  _oh_ , John has been loving being held down, has relished the feeling of being unable to wriggle away from Sherlock’s whims, but  _that_ is exactly the wrong gauntlet to throw when John is coiled tighter than a spring. They will  _definitely_ be revisiting this dynamic, but John’s blood is up and Sherlock needs to be taken down a peg. Besides, if John doesn’t get some real stimulation  _right fucking now_ he is going to go mad.  

He throws himself forward, pulling one leg under himself so that he lands on his side. Sherlock reaches out to grab him, but John has his hands in front of him now and manages to get one wrist free of his shirt. Sherlock is growling, trying to seize control of his arms, but he is unbalanced and John manages to knock his elbows outwards, seizing Sherlock’s hips with his thighs and roll them so John was the one with Sherlock pinned beneath him now.

Sherlock’s eyes go wide, his breath coming in short gasps.

“Not quite true, I think you’ll find, Sherlock”

John wants to give Sherlock the same treatment, wants to tease him into a desperate frenzy but John is so aroused he can barely see straight. He leans down and licks along that ridiculous cupids bow, which parts and then Sherlock’s tongue, which had been winding John up so thoroughly only moments before, is sliding along John’s own. John seizes a fistful of Sherlock’s hair, tipping his head to the side to expose that sensual stretch of neck. A decadently wanton moan gives John pause.

“Oh, you like that, do you?”

Sherlock tries to nod, pulling his own hair tighter in Johns fist, and whimpers.  _Not quite so put together and in charge, now, are you?_ But John’s advantage doesn’t last for long. Sherlock’s fingers slide down John’s ass, ghosting over his hole. John’s distraction allows him to shift backwards and sit up, pulling John’s hips close to his own in his lap. John forgets about proving a point and sets about undoing Sherlock’s straining shirt buttons instead as his hips roll his erection along Sherlock’s. Their kisses turn biting, teeth involved almost as much as tongue. John leaves Sherlock’s shirt on after he reaches the last button, moving to the placket of Sherlock’s trousers. The angle is awkward, leaving little room for his hand between their hips but then John has a delicious handful of Sherlock’s weeping hardness _._

Sherlock bats John’s hand out the way and wraps his large hand around both of them

_oh, that’s more than a bit alright_

 John allows himself to sink into the sensation of  _finally_ getting some direct stimulation. He moans aloud, as Sherlock’s wide hand strokes them both. John thrusts his hips, pushing his cock through Sherlock’s fist and feel a surge of pride when Sherlock’s moans match his own. He tightens his grip in Sherlock’s hair and grins in satisfaction when Sherlock’s moan gets just a little bit deeper.

Wanting to stretch out their pleasure a little bit longer, John snatches up Sherlock’s hand in his and pins it next to Sherlock’s head. Sherlock doesn’t put up a fight at the movement but John knows to be cautious; neither of them would give up so easily.

He leans down to brush a kiss at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “You know, your smart mouth always gets you into some  _very_ interesting positions.” He nibbles at Sherlock’s jaw and says, “You were right, I did want to be  _exactly_ where I was. But you should know by now that I  _never_ back down from a challenge.”

Sherlock’s hand tightens in their clasp, John’s words getting to him. “And now you’re going to do,” he swallows thickly, nervously, “what exactly?”

“Add a couple bruises of my own,” John replies with a smile. In one swift move, John pulls Sherlock’s head back to elongate his already long, exposed neck and then he is feasting on the skin on display. Right at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, John worries the skin between his teeth, sucking long and hard. He feels Sherlock move beneath him, rutting upwards to stimulate them both while Sherlock’s freehand clutches at his backside, desperate for release.

When John lets go, Sherlock goes boneless beneath him and John flattens his tongue in a broad stripe against the tortured skin before sitting up to view his handiwork. The love bite left behind will be neatly covered by his collar and only John will know how raw and purple it is. Only he would know how it tastes.

He releases Sherlock’s hair and he relaxes even further, almost melting into the floor. His dazed eyes stare up at him with pure, unadulterated  _want_. John smooths his hand down the crown of Sherlock’s head to his neck (pausing briefly at his hickey) before sliding down to Sherlock’s exposed chest to push back the fabric even further.

He kisses Sherlock once more, this kiss gentler than the ones before it. When they parted John says, “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to fuck you,” Sherlock replies without delay. “Let me. I saw how much you want me to.”

John’s eyes close automatically, enjoying the shiver of lust that crept down his back. “I want that too. But not here.” When Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, John silences it with a finger to his lips. “We are going to do this the right way or not at all. Which means with proper lube, which I know I have in my room.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’.” John grins and kisses him once more. “You can have your way with me but I do need to be able to, I don’t know, do things like work tomorrow and I can’t do that if I’m crippled in the morning.”

“Stop talking and start walking, John Watson, or I swear to God you’ll regret it.”

John knows a challenge when he sees one. He lets go of Sherlock and rises so that he, too, can stand. He watches as Sherlock removes the rest of his clothing and  _god_ he was too bloody attractive. His muscles are a sight to behold under that famously pale skin. John can’t wait to touch and taste more of it.

“If you’re quite done staring,” Sherlock says, gesturing to the door. “I believe you said I could have my way with you.”

“I’m enjoying the view. And I don’t recall saying I’d make it easy”

Sherlock’s grin was all teeth. He launches a fraction of a second after John makes a dash for the stairs. He makes it to the steps before Sherlock slams into his back, pressing his face against the wall.

“I am going to  _ruin_ you”

“Such big talk, but I’m not seeing much action, yet”

Sherlock seizes his arms and shoves him toward the stairs. John stumbles upwards, laughing. When they reach the landing, John turns and pulls Sherlock into his arms, walking them backwards into his room. John can’t keep his hands from Sherlock’s skin, can’t resist leaning up to kiss him. Sherlock pulls back, his breathing heavy, and spins John by the shoulders to face his bed before pressing a hand between his shoulder blades. John’s hands move to catch himself on the mattress and Sherlock’s knees hit the floorboards behind him. He doesn’t bother teasing this time - it would seem they were both too keyed up for that. Sherlock’s broad hands pull his cheeks apart and then his tongue is  _oh, finally, finally-_  pushing around and  _in._ John falls to his elbows, opening himself up further to that wicked wet heat.

“Oh, fucking  _jesus,_ yes, that’s spectacular. Fucking _eat_ me, just like that”

Nonsense encouragements fall from Johns mouth. Later, he couldn’t have told you what he said if his life depended upon it. He feels like crying when Sherlock pulls his mouth away. One of his hands leave John’s skin and then there is the tell-tale scrape of the drawer in his bedside table. Because of course he didn’t need to ask where the lube was.

John can’t contain the wanton noise that the thought of Sherlock using it on him evokes. The warmth of Sherlock’s body returns and John, desperately needy, dropped his shoulders to the bed and reaches back to hold himself open.

“Oh,  _John.”_

Sherlock sounds  _wrecked_. His mouth returns, his tongue spiralling in. Then a slick finger is pressing alongside, and that delicious wet muscle is replaced by firm pressure, circling and then pressing  _in._ Sherlock’s tongue had coaxed the muscle into relaxing so it wasn’t long before a second finger presses in alongside the first. John knew those nimble violinists fingers would be devastating inside him and he internally gloats that he’s right. Then they twist  _just so_ and John is wailing into the bedsheets as Sherlock teases around just barely over his prostate.

“That enough action for you, John? Look at you, fucking  _writhing_ for me”

Sherlock’s arousal-deepened voice is stunning but also something about hearing that posh accent swear is disproportionately arousing.

“Jesus, fucking more, give me more, I need...”

John doesn’t have to ask twice. There are three fingers now and there is a burning stretch that feels spectacular. John’s erection is positively dripping into the sheets, the foreskin pulled back and the plummy head brushing against the sheets and it is  _maddening_. John drops his hands and spins around to fist Sherlock’s curls in his hands, pulling him by his hair onto the mattress. He’s progressed from needy into out and out desperate as he straddles Sherlock’s hips, one hand still in Sherlock’s hair, the other on his shoulder.

“Impatient,” Sherlock huffs, glaring up at John as he is manhandled to John’s liking.

“Pot, kettle,” John replies, then hesitates – he really, really wants to feel Sherlock bare, and he knows he’s clean, but…

“Neither of us has participated in any risky behaviour since we’ve been tested”

John looks up to Sherlock – of course he’d know what John was thinking. And John would trust Sherlock with his life – has done, in the past. It’s enough for his lust-addled brain, and he reaches between his legs to position Sherlock’s cock into his loosened hole.

At first breach they both still.

Sherlock’s hands fly to John’s hips, holding him steady as John struggles to breathe normally. The stretch is  _glorious_. He hasn’t done this in years, never so eager to have it before Sherlock. But now, having Sherlock hot and hard, inching inside him, John wants to throttle his past self for not insisting upon it sooner.

Slowly, John eases Sherlock’s cock inside him until he bottoms out. Their chests heave into each other as they both try not to move or jostle John before he was ready. John’s arms wind themselves around Sherlock’s neck and he buries his face there as well, steadying himself as he waits for his body to relax.

Sherlock, knowing what he needs, angles his head to capture his mouth in a tender kiss. They sigh and hum as their presses of lips go from gentle to passionate to frantic. John can’t handle being still anymore, he needs to move.

And so he does.

His hips rise up halfway off Sherlock only to slide back down to press their pelvises together in a maddening grind. Sherlock’s hands tighten around his hips, not guiding or rushing but enjoying, and John silently hopes that there will be new bruises to add to his collection.

“ _John,”_ Sherlock’s voice gasps, awestruck by what he feels. John can sympathize.

“You feel amazing,” John tells him, picking up speed. “Brilliant, fantastic, so so so fucking  _good!”_

“I can feel you, all of you,” Sherlock says, watching John move. “Can you feel how hard you’ve made me, John? Watching you fuck yourself on me only makes me harder. Can you  _feel_ it?” He emphasizes his question by thrusting up hard and pulling John down, holding him there.

“ _Yes!”_

_“_ Good.” In one swift move, Sherlock rolls them over so John is pressed into the mattress once more. “You’ll never not be able to feel me again.”

“Oh fuck, fuck me! Make me believe it,” John begs.

Sherlock is all too eager to make good on his threat to ruin John. Their sedate pace is over, replaced with a hard, fast rhythm that has John crying out every time Sherlock hits his prostate. And, apparently, he is a goddamn surgeon with his prick, hitting the mark on every other thrust. Changing position, Sherlock lifted John’s leg over his shoulder and begins to pound into John with all his might.

Sherlock is right, he is going to ruin him. He will never be the same again. But John doesn’t care one whit about that so long as it ends with an orgasm and Sherlock keeping him. He will never want to be without this.

His balls ache, pulled up tight to his body. His whole nervous system is screaming to let go and  _come_.

“I- I’m close,  _fuck_ , Sherlock I need-”

“Tell me,” Sherlock said, not stopping for one second. “Let me hear you.”

“I need to come,  _please!_ Need…need you to touch me-  _aah!”_ Sherlock’s hand wraps around him and it only takes three strokes before John is seeing stars. His eyes clench so tight as his cock begins to pulse and spurt all over his stomach and Sherlock’s fingers.

“ _Oh John!”_ Sherlock cries, voice reverent. “You’re so good, so good, can feel you gripping me!”

“Come on, love. Want you to, want to feel you.”

“ _Fuck! John!”_ Sherlock cries, hips finally slowing as he comes. He rolls his hips, drawing out his own orgasm as he empties himself into John. His groan is low, long, loud, and it makes John’s cock give an overachieving twitch. Finally, when he’s done, John pulls him down to kiss him soundly.

John pushes his fingers through the soft curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck as their breathing slow. He smudges a kiss against Sherlock’s temple, and John feels a small answering peck brush against his shoulder.

Sherlock’s soft cock slips out of him and the sensation of his cooling come dribbling out of John’s just-slightly-more-than-pleasantly-sore hole pulls an exhausted whimper from John.

“Well, I think it’s fair to say you were right. I aim ruined.”

Sherlock snorts into Johns neck and then they are both giggling. Sherlock moves off John but in the process can’t resist looking at the evidence of their fucking.

“Are you  _looking_?!”

“It’s spectacularly pretty, John.”

A finger pushes some of the pale fluid back inside and John is  _way_ too well-fucked for that kind of behaviour.

“Jesus, you are going to be the death of me”

“Oh, you have  _no_ idea”.

Sherlock settles next to John, an arm thrown over his stomach where he trails his fingers through John’s come.

“I presume you won’t permit me a cigarette”

“You presume correctly”

“Spoilsport”

“I can’t say I blame you, that was fucking incredible, but no.”

“Hmm. Perhaps if I wear you out more thoroughly next time you’ll be more forgiving”

John smiles into Sherlock’s hair. “I’d like to see you try”

 


End file.
